As insane as it is to think, still, even now, he knows what it sounds like when Danny wants him. That they've been doing this, he has, Danny has, enough times in this house he be loathed to admit out right he can tell complete difference between his tone between distracted, but interested, and unable to breathe, why are you making me talk and dear god, i'll tell you anything, anything at all, if you just don't stop, don't stop and you want to blow up the world, that's nice, brain melted, mumble mumble mumble, grafted to his shoulder.
Enough times that he could tell you, this could easily go there, probably is going to get there at some point, maybe not even long from now. When Danny's heart hasn't stopped hammering the skin flickering at his neck. When Steve can tell, okay, it's not like he needs a guide book and map to explain it to him, when Danny's pressed up against him this close, hanging on to his body, finding the skin on his back, gripping his hair. Jerking his hips. Kissing him like he was going to brand himself on Steve for people to find a like a tag.
And Steve knows it. That word. The ones implied in it. Won't forget it. Can't. How it has tumbled into his ear each time, like a desperate secret, torn out from Danny's chest, being ridden by a molten wave taking them both under, in the cover of darkness, right at the edge of fraying sanity and desperation so blinding it can break down any feat of will trying to maintain the semblance of anything, trying to hold anything inside when everything rushes out.
But that wasn't the tone Danny just used. Even with heavy breathing, grinding lightly against him, giving him his skin.
That was more like. What? What was it? It was almost familiar. Almost like the tone he used when he talked about Grace. Reckless and shameless in wanting, desperation, devotion, endless reaction to the cascade of terrible things lawyers and court case poured on to him. When he needed to win, and he could almost admit, without having to say the words, he might lose.
A topic neither of them talked about much. Maybe because it was directly tied to a hard enddate for all of this.
Because Danny had to be with Grace, like plants had to have sun, and so Danny was going to win. His daughter. His life.
But. That was. It was precise and meant the way it was said. Ringing with clarity and certainty besides Steve's head. Like it was the only answer to the question anywhere, and not one of the half dozen or dozen jokes or insults he'd expected Danny to lob at his head. About flirting or other people or Steve taking his words and twisting them to mean everything Danny had never once implied in the first place anyway, Steven.
When that still doesn't. He can line up the facts. With evidential proofs. Fast. Barely seconds. Like a field op. He can haphazardly guess at how, if not why. Even tell when Danny goes a little rigid, beneath the fingers at his cheek and the hand still lingering on his ribs. When he's his eyes moving a little too fast, back and forth, flicking across Steve's face, watching him. Could literally tell this is the exact second where Danny Williams began to panic.
Because he knows him. He knows Danny. His partner. His best friend. The person he's --
But this. He doesn't know that he knows this. Or maybe he's to wary to consider letting it be any of the things shoved down, pressed under his fingertips, in his head. BEcause this is. It isn't casual. But it is still sort of just an extension of their friendship, of their partnership. Days after work, weekends when Danny doesn't have Grace, there are visits to the, research on the ghost of his Mother's background.
When it might not be casual, but it still is, too. When the two times they've pressed it into the world, somewhere else, something catastrophic or work related decided it was a better time for that. Like tonight going from easy hang out, to the middle of little warzone every other breath. When he doesn't know exactly where this is coming from or why.
It's so careful, a question without one, a challenge that isn't a joke, the need for clarity, when he repeats. "You want me."
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Enough times that he could tell you, this could easily go there, probably is going to get there at some point, maybe not even long from now. When Danny's heart hasn't stopped hammering the skin flickering at his neck. When Steve can tell, okay, it's not like he needs a guide book and map to explain it to him, when Danny's pressed up against him this close, hanging on to his body, finding the skin on his back, gripping his hair. Jerking his hips. Kissing him like he was going to brand himself on Steve for people to find a like a tag.
And Steve knows it. That word. The ones implied in it. Won't forget it. Can't. How it has tumbled into his ear each time, like a desperate secret, torn out from Danny's chest, being ridden by a molten wave taking them both under, in the cover of darkness, right at the edge of fraying sanity and desperation so blinding it can break down any feat of will trying to maintain the semblance of anything, trying to hold anything inside when everything rushes out.
But that wasn't the tone Danny just used. Even with heavy breathing, grinding lightly against him, giving him his skin.
That was more like. What? What was it? It was almost familiar. Almost like the tone he used when he talked about Grace. Reckless and shameless in wanting, desperation, devotion, endless reaction to the cascade of terrible things lawyers and court case poured on to him. When he needed to win, and he could almost admit, without having to say the words, he might lose.
A topic neither of them talked about much. Maybe because it was directly tied to a hard enddate for all of this.
Because Danny had to be with Grace, like plants had to have sun, and so Danny was going to win. His daughter. His life.
But. That was. It was precise and meant the way it was said. Ringing with clarity and certainty besides Steve's head. Like it was the only answer to the question anywhere, and not one of the half dozen or dozen jokes or insults he'd expected Danny to lob at his head. About flirting or other people or Steve taking his words and twisting them to mean everything Danny had never once implied in the first place anyway, Steven.
When that still doesn't. He can line up the facts. With evidential proofs. Fast. Barely seconds. Like a field op. He can haphazardly guess at how, if not why. Even tell when Danny goes a little rigid, beneath the fingers at his cheek and the hand still lingering on his ribs. When he's his eyes moving a little too fast, back and forth, flicking across Steve's face, watching him. Could literally tell this is the exact second where Danny Williams began to panic.
Because he knows him. He knows Danny. His partner. His best friend. The person he's --
But this. He doesn't know that he knows this. Or maybe he's to wary to consider letting it be any of the things shoved down, pressed under his fingertips, in his head. BEcause this is. It isn't casual. But it is still sort of just an extension of their friendship, of their partnership. Days after work, weekends when Danny doesn't have Grace, there are visits to the, research on the ghost of his Mother's background.
When it might not be casual, but it still is, too. When the two times they've pressed it into the world, somewhere else, something catastrophic or work related decided it was a better time for that. Like tonight going from easy hang out, to the middle of little warzone every other breath. When he doesn't know exactly where this is coming from or why.
It's so careful, a question without one, a challenge that isn't a joke, the need for clarity, when he repeats. "You want me."